So I was sitting on the floor of my bathroom two days ago, rummaging around in the cabinet under the sink, looking for cold medicine. Which we apparently hadn't restocked from last year. I sat there, in my mucus haze, cursing the little three year old glazed-doughnut-monsters that had passed on their crusty germs to me and looking for anything that might provide relief.
This is how The Man stumbled upon me as I dazedly contemplated the decade old Benadryl in my hand, trying to remember what I knew about half-life potency of certain drugs. Which, whether sick or healthy, is pretty much diddly over squat.
Cautiously, like approaching an injured animal in the wild, The Man asked, "Whatcha got there?"
Clutching the medicine that expired in 2003 to my chest like it's My Preciousssss, I replied, "Nothing."
"Just some medicine I think I might take."
"Lemme see it."
I shook my head, wishing immediately that I hadn't.
He gave me that disapproving look, the one he saves for when I've really gone off the reservation. The one that's part, "Do we really have to ride this train?" and "Why do I always have to be the responsible adult?"
After much coaxing and bribery by alcohol, he got me to release the medicine and brought me some whiskey with honey and lemon in it, which I sipped until he came back from the store with Nyquil and day time cough medicine.
That Man, I tell you. He's a keeper.
So I've been sick and wishing I could stay in bed, but nursery school duty calls and I must obey--since I'm hoping to give the germs right back to those little critters!
Anywho, until next time, Citizens, when I'll be talking about music and writing. Stay healthy! And if you see any little glazed doughnut monsters wiping their noses on their sleeves. . . head the other way!
5 hours ago